


Like A Fine Wine

by hellhoundsprey



Series: ficlet prompts [22]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Abusive Relationships, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Bondage, Cock Cages, Dom Sam, M/M, Married Couple, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Orgasm Control, Sexual Coercion, Sub Dean, implied anal fisting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-26
Updated: 2020-06-26
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:20:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 895
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24926059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellhoundsprey/pseuds/hellhoundsprey
Summary: Prompt: Here is the second one: In the "sequel/future!ficlet" for "50", I would love to see Smith and Wesson's interactions after Dean fully embraced his submissive side. Again, full on Explicit "actions"! :P You are awesome!!! :D - Oh!!! Thirsty anon here!!! I forgot to say, that I would LOVE if Smith would have his nipples pierced and have a Prince Albert with a ring representing his marriage to Wesson. Tons of feminization and Dean being able to take Sam's fist in him. Thank you!!! :D
Relationships: Dean Smith/Sam Wesson
Series: ficlet prompts [22]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/478657
Comments: 10
Kudos: 52





	Like A Fine Wine

**Author's Note:**

  * For [silver9mm](https://archiveofourown.org/users/silver9mm/gifts).



> Okay look I love you. Know that you have my heart.
> 
> Also, those are some amazing headcanons, fuck. Some of them don’t exactly line up with my understanding of these specific idiots BUT let’s see how they work this out.
> 
> **This is a future timestamp for my fic "[50](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5668567)". You don't have to have read it to enjoy this piece.**

It hasn’t stopped raining these past few days. Hammers against all windows, every surface—unrelenting, like a constant headache. Nothing is safe.

The rain ruined at least one of Smith’s silk ties, so far.

“Looks good.”

The antiseptic stings. Doesn’t burn anymore, no. (Not like he’d admit to that.)

“I think we can swap out the ring any day now.”

Dean comments, flatly, “Yay,” eyes bored and pointed to the bedroom ceiling. “You done yet? I’m getting cold.”

His husband argues how, “I let you keep the shirt on,” and Smith rolls his eyes.

Dean lolls his head to his left to face the window. The ocean’s in an uproar just outside, licks at the shore like it’s about to climb it. Devour the world; them. Everything.

Sam puts his supplies back where they belong—containers and boxes, clear acrylic; stainless steel. The sounds are so familiar, calming. Like someone prepping their daily cup of tea. Always the same order—antiseptic, tweezers, more antiseptic, cotton into trash, tissues into trash, gloves.

Except that the gloves don’t come off, this time.

Dean warns, “Stop it,” and earns the complementary, “I can’t help it. Looking so good right now, pet.”

Latex on the inside of his thigh, slapping him like you’d do it with a horse; the other hand cups his balls in not-so-subtle threat.

Dean grumbles, “They said four weeks. _Four_ , Sam,” but does spread his legs further apart.

Sam climbs between them, blindly, scoffing. “It’s not like I was gonna touch it. Calm down.”

Dean rumbles his disbelief but turns so Sam can kiss him on the mouth. Can slip their tongues together, and Smith gets his feet on the mattress so he can let his knees fall outwards more comfortably.

Sam’s hand keeps busying itself with Dean’s balls and Dean reminds, “I’m not supposed to.”

“You’ve got the cage on. Don’t worry.”

Sam deepens their kiss. Eats at Dean’s mouth and Dean’s eyes slip shut. Fucking storms at night fuck his sleep up. He’s always exhausted, these days, Riley and the dogs or not.

Hands into Sam’s hair. He holds on. Feels his breath hitching upon Sam popping a button or two of his shirt, worm his hand in-between.

Finds one of the other rings, here, and tugs.

Dean pleads, “Sir,” and gets his balls pulled at.

Dean holds still. Doesn’t speak again. Lets the heat roam and shoot, sharp like pain, lets Sam lick into his mouth as much as he wants.

Sam rolls his pierced nipple between forefinger and thumb.

Says, quietly, “You will kneel on the floor and wait,” and Smith bites, “Yes, sir.”

Sam lifts and disappears just as quick as he had climbed the bed, climbed Dean.

Pulls off the gloves now, audibly, snaps his now-bare fingers while he’s already on the move.

“Today, pet.”

Dean doesn’t complain. Doesn’t argue. It’s not one of those days.

His dick fucking _hurts_.

He leaves his shirt on the bed, just to make any sort of point. Folds his legs underneath himself, knees pointing outwards, arms behind his back. He’s done this too many times to be anything but flawless about it.

Eyes closed, he already begins to swim, to float. The rain lulls him in. The ocean calls.

His fingers stop dancing over his own forearm as soon as the familiar rhythm of Sam’s footsteps reaches his ears.

He grips it, hard, instead.

Sam snaps his finger again, points to the ground by his feet.

Dean sighs. Probably deserves that one, for the shirt.

He shuffles over, settles back into the pose.

Sam backhands him.

For the sigh, obviously. (Worth it.)

“Does it hurt?” all casual as Sam bends down to secure the blindfold around Dean’s head.

“Which one, sir?”

“Any of them?”

Dean lies, “No, sir,” and hears Sam squatting down in front of him. Feels that breath, close, before Sam reaches for his chest again.

Asks, “You sure?” as he twists, and Smith keeps his mouth under control; doesn’t grind his teeth and breathes through his nose.

“Yes, sir.”

The other side, now. “Even when I do this?”

“Yes, sir.”

He doesn’t know why he lies. Sam will pick up on him sweating his ass off once he ties him up, anyway.

An illusion of control—Sam lets him have this one. As a treat.

(The man’s gotten soft ever since Smith had agreed to the goddamn piercings. Looks at Dean like a love-sick puppy when he thinks nobody notices (not even Dean, not really). Even got a babysitter for the whole week. A deal is a deal.

The goddamn negotiations though had nearly been enough to crack Dean’s head open for good. Thank god their next big anniversary is another decade away.)

“I think you’re gonna take my arm today.”

“Okay. Sir.”

“Only ‘okay’?” Smith can _hear_ that frown. “You want your tits clamped so bad, you could’ve just said so.”

Dean grits, “Yes, sir,” and, yeah, his pits are drenched.

Fuck. He’s too tired for this shit.

Sam secures his arms for him, makes another trip to the playroom for the clamps. Clips those over the week-old piercings and Dean nearly breaks. Nearly folds forward, inward.

Doesn’t. “Hurts?”

“No, sir.”

“And you know why?”

“’Cause I’m fucking perfect,” snarls Smith, and his laughing husband pats his cheek all gentle, all play. True love.

“Yeah. Yeah, you are.”


End file.
